Muddling Through
by Politzania
Summary: "Those aren't the right words... to that song." He didn't know how he knew it, but it was true. He didn't know how he knew a lot of things. Memories came back at random, so he was keeping a notebook, trying to piece things together.


Muddling Through

"Those aren't the right words."

"What was that, sweetie? More coffee?" The waitress at the truckstop held up a pot of joe. She'd taken his plate some time ago; roast beef and mashed potatoes had sounded good, sounded familiar, but he'd only been able to finish about half of it before a wave of nausea nearly sent him to the can. His eyes were still too big for his stomach, apparently. Should have stuck with soup.

"Yes, please. And those aren't the right words... to that song." He didn't know how he knew it, but it was true. He didn't know how he knew a lot of things. Memories came back at random, so he was keeping a notebook, trying to piece things together.

She listened to the music for a moment. "You know, I think you're right, hon. Just watched the movie the other day and she sang something a little different." It was late, and since he was her only customer at the moment, she seemed inclined to make small talk. He was a little surprised that she hadn't already told him to be on his way; he'd been hitching his way around the country, but rides were getting harder to come by as his appearance grew more rough.

"The movie?" He didn't remember a movie, just a scratchy record, played over and over. No idea where or when, though. Not yet.

"Sure - _Meet Me in St. Louis_ with Judy Garland. It's a classic. Pardon me, dear." A couple of customers had just walked in, and she was needed elsewhere.

Judy Garland, that was the gal from _Wizard of Oz_ ...he and Steve had spent one whole Saturday at the movie house, saw the movie three times before the ushers kicked them out.

Steve. Most of the clearest, best memories he'd gotten back so far involved Steve. Small, scrappy, stubborn Stevie. Captain Rogers - no longer small, but just as stubborn and scrappy. Both versions willing to go to hell and back, to the end of the line. And he had followed; had always followed.

"Those aren't the right words."

They were listening to Christmas songs as they prepped dinner in the shared kitchen. Natasha hadn't been paying attention, as most of the songs meant nothing to her.

"What do you mean, Steve?" She heard a touch of concern in Sam's voice.

"Those aren't the right words to that song. Bucky's sister, Rebecca, sent us the record - we listened to it a lot that Christmas we were overseas. This isn't the song I remember."

"Hm.. it's the version I grew up with. Maybe they changed it somewhere along the line." Natasha noted how deliberately casual Sam was with his words. He'd finally convinced Steve to take a break from looking for Barnes; to come to New York for the holidays and celebrate with the team. He'd hoped to take Steve's mind off his missing friend. Easier said than done, apparently.

The waitress came back with a slice of apple pie. "Here, it's on the house. Thank you for your service."

"Uh... no.. you're mistaken... " he panicked a little, just a little. How had she read him so easily? What else had he given away?

"I married a Vietnam vet and my son, John, was in Iraq. You're sitting where you can see all the exits. That backfire a few minutes ago nearly sent you under the counter. I recognize how you're holding your arm; John's missing his at the shoulder. I'm not mistaken. I see a lot of men - and women, now - who've stood in your shoes. I do what I can to help."

She slid a plastic card across the counter. "Once you're done with the pie, you can go get cleaned up, if you want." She pointed to the back of the building, to a sign that read "Showers" and gave him a motherly smile. "Where you going? Maybe I can rustle you up a ride."

Natasha opened up her laptop, and typed in "Merry Little Christmas wikipedia". The article confirmed what Steve had said. The song, originally from the film _Meet Me In Saint Louis_ , was a moderate hit for Judy Garland. Once it had its lyrics changed at Frank Sinatra's request, the more upbeat version became a holiday classic.

"Bucky had such a crush on Miss Garland, ever since we went to see _The Wizard of Oz_." Steve was reading over her shoulder. "Can you find the original words somewhere?" She dug a bit deeper and located the lyrics:

 _Have yourself a merry little Christmas_

 _Let your heart be light_

 _Next year all our troubles will be out of sight_

 _Have yourself a merry little Christmas_

 _Make the yuletide gay_

 _Next year all our troubles will be miles away_

 _Once again as in olden days_

 _Happy golden days of yore_

 _Faithful friends who were dear to us_

 _Will be near to us once more_

 _Someday soon we all will be together_

 _If the fates allow_

 _Until then we'll have to muddle through somehow_

 _So have yourself a merry little Christmas now_

"That's them... and boy, did we want to believe those words." She heard his breath hitch a bit, but then he stood back up, straightened his shoulders, and strode back into the kitchen. She looked at Sam and saw him shake his head slightly. Steve was a stubborn man who didn't like to talk about his feelings. They'd have to let him be for now.

As he waited for his hair to dry, he skimmed through his news alerts. He'd tagged several terms, including "Avengers" and "Captain America"; and had gotten a hit the previous day. Some gossip rag reported that Captain America was seen entering Stark Tower in Manhattan, carrying bags from various department stores. It speculated that the Avengers were having a holiday get-together.

Another familiar song had come on the radio - Bing Crosby and "I'll Be Home for Christmas". Seemed as if the universe was trying to tell him something. Maybe it was time to listen, to stop running.

He checked the maps app - it was about an eight hour drive to the city from here. If he got lucky - he might make it there by Christmas day.

The waitress came back by. "So, hon - where's the wind blowing you tonight?"

"New York City, ma'am." Saying it out loud made it more of a reality; he was committed now.

"Thought I heard a bit of a Brooklyn accent. Rudy said he's got a spot for a shotgun rider. He can get you most of the way there." She tilted her head down to the other end of the counter, where an older man, nose reddened from the cold, nodded to them.

"Thank you," he checked her nametag, "Angie. Thank you for everything."

"You're welcome, dear. And if a sentimental gal wanted to mention you in her prayers tonight...?"

"My name is James, but I go by Bucky."

"Captain Rogers?"

"Yes, JARVIS?" After they'd all exchanged gifts, he'd begged off watching a movie with the team. He preferred to be alone with his thoughts.

"There appears to be a special delivery for you outside the lobby."

"Special delivery? But it's almost eleven o'clock at night."

"I suggest you come down immediately; I'm not sure how long he's going to wait." JARVIS' last statement didn't make sense, but Steve put on slippers and a coat over his pajamas and rode the elevator to the ground floor.

He saw a figure standing outside the main doors to the building, facing toward the street, stamping his feet to try to stay warm. The figure turned, the streetlight shining on his profile, and Steve caught his breath. He opened the door, hands trembling, but not because of the cold.

"Merry Christmas, punk. Sorry I'm a little late."


End file.
